


Fixing the Seam (rip it the fuck out)

by wyrm_n_sigun



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist!Hiccup, Domestic arguments, Emotionally Abusive Parenting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Profanity, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrm_n_sigun/pseuds/wyrm_n_sigun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His life is going to be amazing once he just gets out, he reminds himself.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>HTTYD Modern AU. Hiccup and his dad don't get on. Hiccup's interests don't help. Personal fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time, Hiccup had thought that perhaps he should run in front of a bus. Not to get himself killed or anything, but to make his dad concerned for him. It was a cruel thought, he knew even as he thought it, and he didn't think it fair he could jump in front of a bus and scare his dad shitless and just walk away after. Therefore, in this dream scenario in which his dad suddenly became his best friend and apologised for everything, he decided eventually he'd be willing to lose a foot. It gets run over as the bus driver brakes: Hiccup has to go to hospital, a tragic young man destroying himself for want of a father's care. He loses a limb so his father can never forget. As dream-Hiccup lies in hospital, his dad comes to visit. Maybe he sheds tears, even, over his broken son, and it's all his fault; but of course Hiccup forgives him, in his sheet-white fragility and painful purity. But his father will never forgive himself, and that's enough grudge for the two of them. Hiccup is satisfied.

 

His dream-dad hovers when Hiccup takes his first angel amputee steps, and Hiccup is a year old, tottering around in an idyllic infancy he doesn't remember. He's moved from wheelchair to crutches to prosthetic and his dad holds him upright; he's all but three, laughing when he gets pushed around on a rolling ottoman, arms out like he's flying. His dad hugs him, back-thumps him gentle to mind his health, and he's five years old again, wriggling down his dad's sprawled front on an armchair and falling to the floor, waiting to be scooped up again and held tight.

 

In this dream, he stops being a son who is expected to  _become_ someone, and becomes again a son who is loved because he has a dad and that's what dads are supposed to do, love their kids. And yes, he knows his dad has never  _not_  loved him, and that's why he never does actually seek out the bus. But love now feels too much like being suffocated, and love when he was a kid felt like just being supported. 

 

It's a sick dream. And he loves his dad too much to do that to him. 

 

 

 

 

 

Hiccup often imagines what things would have been like had his mum still been in the picture. 

 

Gobber says that Hiccup is a lot like her. She'd better have been; he certainly hadn't gotten any of his  _him_ from his dad, and he can't bear the thought of all his weirdness and wrongness springing from nothing, unbidden. 

 

Hiccup wonders how her presence would have tilted things. Perhaps, if she and he were alike, his dad wouldn't have been so overwhelming. His mum would have taken his side. Or, he supposes, he would have taken hers, seeing how she'd gotten there first. He's not adult enough yet to realise quite how unhealthy it is for him to be used to the _sides_  in his own house. He's not far away enough from it yet to realise that being forced to always side with his mum wouldn't have been a good thing.  

 

Gobber is always a neutral, third party. And when Hiccup is older, he will be glad of it. 

 

But, now, Hiccup is still but eighteen, and he just has to last another month and a half, not even a whole summer left before he goes to university and everything will be  _fixed._ It has to; he fought so hard for it, after all. 

 

Well, maybe not fought. Or, well, fought a few times. But never about the actual problem. For such a blunt man, his dad sure manages to avoid everything that is important when arguing. It was always about something stupid, like not liking the shit fantasy novels Hiccup was reading in year six because they would be a distraction from homework. Or how Hiccup hadn't chosen a second science class one term. How he didn't do well enough on some exam. His dad forced him to do sport when he was seven, and blew up when he quit at eight. He'd almost pushed Hiccup into the car to go sign up again the next year, and Hiccup had run halfway down the street in tears. And his dad was angry about that too, because people might have seen.

 

Hiccup has always prided himself on not being an angry person, not like his dad. He has the world's longest fuse. He can take anything. But he's realised now, now that this is the last summer and he's in his room more often than not, that he is an  _incredibly_ angry person. Just like his fucking dad. 

 

He didn't realise it before because his dad isn't sarcastic, his dad isn't mean. His dad is terrifying, huge and loud and he's hit things a lot, he's broken stuff a lot, and Hiccup still flinches at every slammed door. But Hiccup gets himself backed into corners and he's long past crying during a fight, and when he's trapped he lunges out and bites into a nerve, because he  _knows_ his dad, even when he really, really doesn't, and he knows where all the weak points are. He's awful.

 

And he hasn't fought with his dad at all since May, since all the uni stuff was set in stone and his dad gave up on him. And he gave up on his dad too, somehow managing to avoid the corners and the almost-grieving glowers and virtually all interaction except the twenty minutes it takes to eat dinner in silence. And he realises that he's been taking the bait all this time, exhausting himself all this time, because he was, in fact,  _furious._

 

He's not angry now. He's not anything. He's scared of a lot of stuff -- he's about to move away, he's going to be at university, he's going to be friendless again -- and yet he feels emotionless. 

 

His life is going to be amazing once he just  _gets out,_ he reminds himself.

 

It's all he's got. 

 

 

 

 

 

At school, he would usually eat lunch with Fishlegs. Two geeks, birds of a feather, it made sense. They'd known each other for years, but it wasn't until year seven or so that their lonely loser camaraderie became honest-to-goodness friendship. They hung out, too. Did nerdy stuff. Homework, mostly. Fishlegs liked video games, they played those a lot too. Hiccup was at his house half the time anyway, for Magic: The Gathering every Sunday with a bunch of other similarly-plumed nerds Fishlegs had dug up from somewhere. They were all nice people. They all did the extended  _Lord of the Rings_ marathon together one time. Hiccup had had to leave before the Ents could get on the go, but it had been fun.   

 

Hiccup didn't talk at all about home, and Fishlegs never seemed to notice that anything was wrong. (Nothing was wrong.) Fishlegs is a big, cushy brick wall, thick-skinned and honest and expecting the same out of everyone else. He doesn't worry about stuff. But if Hiccup had wanted to talk about something, Fishlegs would have listened. He's a good friend. Hiccup kept his silence. It was fine.

 

He doesn't get the same privacy with Astrid.

 

She's got more body fat than when they first met in year ten, him terrified and tired of everything and silent-stewing and her always thrumming with the need to be constantly useful, active, productive, better. She didn't eat right back then, either, and it didn't help her boxing any. Now she's thick and wide and intimidating as hell, and he's proud of her. They went out just on Monday, she's become a happy person. Somehow, Hiccup's angsty shit helped her sort out her own angsty shit and she seems content now with who she is. She's going to try and visit him at uni as much as she can, when she can get off her job. She mentioned maybe finding a school near his, moving in together, but that's a bit in the future for her. She's allowed to wait before she chooses a path. He wasn't. But it's fine.

 

At first, when they'd met through the simple accident of sitting next to each other in class, surnames adjacent in the roster, Hiccup wished he could be more like Astrid, since she was clearly the motivated, athletic, brilliant, well-rounded, perfect kid his dad would have wanted. Excellent student, of course, perfect attendance, the whole package. But now, he wishes he could be more like Astrid simply because she has grown up, levelled out, calmed down, in ways he doesn't think he has yet.  

 

But she told him once way back when that she wished she could be passionate about stuff she was interested in, like he was, and he hopes she still feels that way.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

The problem was never really about Hiccup's interests, or really even his university choice. They were the large unspoken issues in the fights, but they all fell under the same umbrella.

 

His dad hadn't expected a son like Hiccup. He'd expected a son like  _himself._ All the Haddock men had been the same. Perhaps, if Hiccup were a girl instead, his dad might have had different expectations. But Hiccup was his son, and his dad didn't want this son; Stoick Haddock wanted Stoick Haddock Jr, the son who followed his footsteps. His dad had gone until perhaps Hiccup was thirteen trying to raise that other son, the better one, instead; but eventually he realised that wishing was not going to mould Hiccup into that other boy, and he became fed up. He was saddled with some kid whom he didn't understand and who talked back and who was wasting his time fooling around with sketchbooks and novels and fabric (of all things!) when he was smart enough to be a computer programmer or a lawyer or a doctor or an engineer or a physicist. And knowing so made Hiccup even angrier, because his dad had encouraged all of his fooling around, until Hiccup was talking art and design school and it became apparent that his interests had not been merely hobbies for an Oxbridge-application CV. 

 

But Hiccup doesn't  _want_ to do any of that other junk. He knows he's smart, sure: he's pretty good at maths, sciences were often some of his favourite courses, and he likes computers fine; engineering involves a lot of drawing plans and designs, and that's cool, and he likes to make stuff -- and it's useful stuff too, that's always good. But the fact that his dad picked these options from a list of  _acceptable careers_ made him push back. He was angry, and he had never really done what his dad wanted. He didn't like the idea of doing something because he qualified for it on paper. His dad did that, and look at him. His dad is miserable. 

 

Hiccup had taken art classes every chance he could, and while he didn't enjoy ceramics very much he's always liked to draw. He'd been eleven years old, at his first Dungeons & Dragons session, and had looked at the art on one of the manuals and had suddenly felt every compliment for his margin-doodles sound sudden hollow. He'd become determined then to be as good as whoever drew that cover art. He thinks now he might be better. 

 

But his real breakthrough was when he'd tried out another sculpture class on a whim in year ten, it wasn't ceramics this time and he had hopes for it. The course description was something really flaky, about it being in 'alternative 3D-media' or something, and his dad was unimpressed. But the first day he'd been handed a wooden hoop with a bit of fabric stretched across it like a drum, and a needle with blue-purple floss in it, and he'd discovered then that he liked embroidery. It turned out he liked sewing in general. He made a costume for Fishlegs of his D&D character, and it felt like coming full-circle. And then he'd started on one for himself, but that got derailed. It's somewhere in one of his bottomless bins of hoarded fabric and old sheets he got from the second-hand shop, along with ten other unfinished projects.

 

His dad hadn't had a problem with him buying the thrice-used sewing machine; it was for a class, after all. His dad had a problem with him still using it. With him wanting to use it, to get better, to be as good at sewing as he thought he was at drawing, or at maths he supposed. 

 

When Hiccup picked a school, he'd looked for somewhere that had options. He was best at drawing, but he also enjoyed the wood and metal shops, so he didn't want to miss out on any of those. He wanted to try all sorts of other things, too. He's never been much of a painter, it'd be nice to try. But most of all he wanted to make sure he could do more fabric arts, because he liked sewing so much, and wanted to be really good at it, and he wanted to try every iteration of it.

 

He tried to explain to his drawing teacher why he thought he might prefer needles to pencils. He could watch a movie and fiddle with a bit of embroidery in his lap, for example. He likes using his hands, and not having to get them covered in graphite dust. He draws a design he wants or laid out a pattern he was going to sew, and after that it’s all about just using his hands and making it; there aren't constant decisions and erasings to be made at every turn. And at the end he comes out with something tangible, proof of a battle won with ripped-out-stitches and ill-wound bobbins and pins he keeps stepping on bare-footed. He puts a film or an audio-book on in the background and it’s just him working and it’s not the machine's fault if it breaks three needles in a row, and calling it profanities doesn't make him feel any better nor the poor thing any less ornery. He began learning to apologise, too, to the sewing machine. And talking in general to it. This last stuff he most definitely left out of his explanation to his teacher.

 

So, what? The stupid thing is like forty years old or something, and it acts like it. The pedal squeaks at him like a chatty mouse, or a rocking chair. It can barely hold onto the needle anymore. It is like a gormless old grump, with the temper of a five-year old. So, like Hiccup, really. He loves it. He started giving it encouragement whenever it fucked up the bobbin-thread (again), rather than insults, and he thinks maybe it loves him too, because it always works better afterwards. Though maybe his rewinding the thread with a clear head and not planning murder helps too. 

 

He feels better. So much shit happened in year ten, and a good amount in year eleven too. And it got even worse in sixth form. But he has his stupid gripless toothless sewing machine, and friends in Astrid and Fishlegs. He's learned, somewhere along the way, that venting to Astrid is infinitely better than letting his tongue run off at home. And he doesn't need to vent as much anymore, because he doesn't have as much defensive snark and resentment inside him, anyway. He's calm and his hands are steady as he feeds the fabric through. He's not on red alert every moment inside this house anymore. He works and he knows he's safe. He lets things roll off of him now. Or, he tries to anyway.

 

And this is why he's going to stick with art, and why he's going to take this dumb shitty old sewing machine all the way with him to uni, and why he is able now to neat-dodge his dad and the anger and why he's surviving this last summer of waiting. He's making himself a backpack now; with loads of badass pockets that only he knows about, of course, because he designed it. It's the first thing he's designed from scratch -- he drew the pattern himself -- and it's exciting. He has no feelings yet for going to uni, but he's really excited about taking this backpack with him. He's finally getting to use the cool waterproof fabric Astrid found for him last year, with all the hexagons printed on it, looking like something from a sci-fi film. 

 

There was that one time, he was fifteen he thinks, when his dad raised his eyes to heaven and asked Val what he'd done to deserve  _this,_  gesturing to his son. The memory makes Hiccup tense, and his foot presses on the pedal too hard, and his shitty old sewing machine has a near-heart-attack. 

 

But there was also that time on Thursday, when Hiccup was at the sink, checking that the waterproof really  _was_ such, and his dad asked what he was up to, careful-casual, and he explained he was making a backpack. And his dad seemed almost stunned for some reason, but had nodded and remarked that it should prove very useful. And then added that a custom bag was an interesting thing to bring to his first year of uni, and would make him many friends, being a talking-piece and all. Hiccup's foot relaxes, and he and the sputtering machine are in sync again. His dad said something nice, sort of, not four days ago. 

 

He hopes -- no, he  _knows,_ he has to know -- that everything will be better once he leaves, even him and his dad. Because his dad seems to have at least accepted his awkward abrasive artsy progeny, even if he still doesn't like seeing his boy operating a sewing machine when he could be operating at tables or on million-pound software projects.

 

He can't change what he's got. 

 

But Hiccup has changed himself, somehow, without his dad's help, and he's more hopeful than bitter for the first time in almost all his life. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: So, I decided to set this in the UK, as you probably noticed. I did this because honestly Modern AU set in the US has always seemed odd to me, since the original books are British and all. This decision makes things unnecessarily complicated for me seeing as I'm American myself, so... I did my best.  
> In this vein though, yes I'm aware that I wrote the whole university/art school process thing much more like universities work in the States. I did this because 1) I go to an American art school and so have personal experience and this is a personal fic, 2) I have no personal experience with UK art schools, though based on my experience with art school elsewhere in Europe I can imagine it's quite different, and 3) I did not believe that Stoick as I wrote him here would realistically allow Hiccup to take a year off to attend an art prep school before applying to an art university. (Again, this is colored by my own experience.) But since Hiccup, as we know, still doesn't know who he is, I knew he needed the sort of general foundation year of art school in which one experiments with many pursuits, which is a thing we have in the States. So pretend he goes to a university that for some reason works like American art school. I apologise for making this a bit of a mess.  
> I have written a second part to this, a bit different in tone/style, that I can post soon too if there's interest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiccup is in his first year of art school, but home follows him there. Humor, mostly. Warnings for Ruffnut being vulgar a lot?

 

He's waiting at the station, staring at the arrivals board and swishing the dregs of a cup of tea. When he gets a platform at last, Hiccup straightens, chucking the cup and edging over to where they'll be getting off. The train's passengers jostle through the turnstile, and as the crowd descends he sees what he thinks might be his girlfriend among them. He stands on tip-toes to look, and Astrid spots him immediately. Two seconds pass and she's manhandled everyone else aside, already hugging him. Ruffnut smiles behind her. 

She offers him her fist to bump. "Hey, Hic."

"Hey, Ruff." He touches their knuckles together, and she shakes her head at his delicacy. "Good trip, I hope?"

Astrid steps back from him, but she keeps his hand for herself. "Ugh, terrible. A bunch of kids were sat behind us; what a racket. Children are little terrors."

"Hey, now, you were once one too," Hiccup laughs, too tired and happy to tease her harder.

Ruff's meaner than he today. "Nah, I don't believe it. I think she was just shorter. Kids know how to have fun and stuff, and she didn't."

Astrid baps her in the stomach, and Ruff laughs at her own joke. Ruffnut is also living still at home this year, and has no university plans yet. She's in town for a concert apparently, and because some shady travel agency is offering a discount for it if she goes to a particular hostel. She's the sort of person who would go fight a troll if there were free pizza afterward. Astrid's the sort who'd actually defeat the troll for her, and then nobly refuse the pizza reward.

Astrid is clad in a floaty baby-blue skirt and half-dead Doc Martens; a plaster across her nose-bridge completes her look. Hiccup's missed her. He takes Astrid's duffel and Ruff's umbrella, and the three start for the tube.

"So! Hiccup, first thing I'm supposed to ask you --”

Astrid turns. "Ruff, don't you dare!"

"...how many blokes have come onto you now?"

He blinks. "... Huh?''

"Oh my god, Ruff."

"Well, see, everyone knows art school is full of gay guys, right? So, as the lone straight man, we were wondering if you'd broken any hearts yet." 

" _'You'_ , Ruff, not _'we'_.  _You_ were wondering. _I_  was telling you I'd kick your arse if you actually asked him that."

Hiccup laughs. "Well, now you mention it..."

Both girls turn and gawk, Ruff looking overjoyed. "Shit, really? Who?"

"Do I have to break his jaw?"

Hiccup backtracks, hands up to quell Astrid. "I'm not actually sure! I never know what's going on with Dagur." He laughs thin. "But I thought maybe that was what was happening." 

"Dagur?"

"Yeah. He's industrial design, I think. He's... he's very happy, I suppose. Little frightening."

"I'm gonna have to break his jaw."

" _Astrid._ "

Ruffnut cackles. "He cute?"

" _Ruff!_ Oh my god."

Hiccup is laughing too, and Astrid has already had quite enough of both of them. She puts her arms round Hiccup as they step onto the tube; he grabs the hand-rail and holds on for both of them, answering honestly. “ _Cute_  is never a word that should be associated with Dagur. As I said, frightening industrial designer. Never seen him in shoes without metal studs. But I suppose he's attractive enough, if you're into that."

"I could take him, babe, industrial design or no."

"Course you could. But I'd rather you didn't get your skirt bloody; it's pretty."

"Aw, thank you! It's new."

"It's a good colour on you. I think. It's a light blue, right?"

"Yeah! Sorry, forgot about you and colours."   

"Don't worry about it. I forget about your bad ear all the time, after all."

"Oh, babe," Astrid smiles, and stands tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

Ruffnut is caught between cooing at them, and miming a gag. She somehow manages to do both. A woman nearby snickers.

"So, we going to your place, Hic? And then your school?"

"Er, yeah, you can drop your stuff at mine, and then I can give you lot the tour. But I also need to get shit done, wood shop's not open tomorrow, so I guess you can head off after that, Ruff. We can meet up for dinner or something, and I'll give you your bags back."

"Suits me."

Astrid is playing with the zipper of his hoodie, and looks up. "Can I hang out at the wood shop with you and use my computer? Or is that not allowed? I have some stuff to do too."

"No, you can totally hang out, if I'm there. You just can't touch any of the equipment." 

"Won't touch anything! Don't want to lose my hands." She laughs and holds one up, wrist bandaged too. Obviously her Tuesday match was exciting. "I need them, for pummelling."

Ruff smirks and leans forward, speaking a little too loudly. "And for other  _occupations_."

"Oh my god, that one wasn't even funny. Fuck you." 

"No, no, fuck  _him."_

"If you girls are  _done_ ," Hiccup says, attempting stern, but grinning, "we need to change here."

Neither Astrid nor Ruff know anything about art. It's fine; Hiccup often feels he doesn't, either. He doesn't know what the girls were expecting his fancy art uni to look like, but it's just a boring set of white buildings, with completely normal people inside; he thinks Ruff at least is disappointed. There are a couple of technicolour heads, though, and those seem to cheer her up. (He wonders how long she's going to stick with platinum.)

They've waved at a couple of vaguely-remembered faces, and Astrid has laughed at a corner packed full with half-finished canvases, before they encounter anyone Hiccup really knows. 

"Hiccup!"

Heather's swallowed almost in an enormous jumper, but her arms somehow make it out of the wool to throw themselves around him.

"Heather, hi!"

"Hey! Haven't seen you in  _forever,_ are you feeling better? Who's that with you?" 

"Oh! Heather, this is my girlfriend, Astrid, and an old classmate, Ruffnut. Astrid, Ruff, this is Heather."

Heather is hugging both girls before Hiccup has even finished speaking. Astrid's hug is stiff. 

"So you're Astrid? I've heard so much about you."

Hiccup's face is colouring, and Astrid smirks. "Really?"

"Oh, yes! You two in town just for the week-end?"

Ruff cocks a hip. "I'm out of here Sunday, but Astrid's here for the  _whooole_  week." 

"Really? That's great, Astrid! You should come hang out; fine art's having a party on Wednesday. Maybe you can finally convince Hiccup to come along." 

"Nah, no use," Ruffnut laughs. "She's as tight-laced as he is. And I 'spect they'll be busy anyhow."

"Tight-laced is good; I like tight-laced. Maybe, if you're not as busy, you can still come? Think about it. Anyway, I've got to run, I've a date and I'm already a bit late."

"Don't want to keep her waiting!" Hiccup calls as Heather drifts away.

"No way! I promised her flowers too and everything. I'll catch you later." She gives a last wave, and the three of them watch Heather disappear down the corridor, her ponytail swinging. 

Astrid clears her throat. "So, er, is Heather --"

"She's in fine arts, yeah. Amazing painter; she's been helping me with Intro to Oils, since I'm rubbish at it." 

"Oh," Astrid says, and Ruff waggles brows at her. Hiccup's out of the loop, again. He thinks girls might be slightly psychic.

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. What kind of painting does she do?"

"Loads of stuff, but I think she likes landscapes best. Though honestly I can never tell if they  _are_  landscapes, they're so abstract. But anyway, now you've met Heather, that's one down."

Ruff slaps his side. "You've got more than one friend? The nerd's moving up in the world!" 

"Very funny. That's the canteen, there."

"Looks classy."

"Yes, and your commentary is scintillating, Ruff."

"Eh, I try."

"What d'you think I brought her along for, babe?"

"...Right. Here we've got our drawing studios. I think there might be a class in here, so keep it down."

"Looks like there is: ' _Knock before entering, model in session,'"_ Astrid reads. 

"Those signs are always there, though. You never really know."

Ruffnut stares at the sign and grins. "Wait -- when they say 'models', do they mean, like...  _naked_  models?"

"What else do you think the sign is for?"

"Did you two not hear what I said about being quiet?"

"Sorry."

"Uh-huh. And downstairs is the wood shop." They begin to clatter down a staircase, sounds concussive in the close space. Hiccup has to shout up to be heard. "I 'spect it's empty now, so no-one will mind if you have a peek."

"That's good." Ruff brings up the rear, pausing to glance at a bulletin board covered in flyers. "Don't want those lumberjacks to get all protective of their wood."

Of course, when they get there, it's not empty at all, and someone not far from a lumberjack is working there. He hardly looks like he should exist in the same universe as Hiccup, let alone university.

"Oh, hey, Eret."

Eret turns off the drill press and looks to them, wiping his hands as he approaches. He's not even wearing goggles. "That you, Hiccup? And you've got  _company_." 

"Er, yes, this is Astrid, my girlfriend, and Ruffnut, an old classmate. Astrid, Ruff, this is Eret. He's... yeah." 

"Astrid, eh? I've heard loads 'bout you."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, Hiccup here hardly shuts up about his boxer girlfriend." He stops, mid-swagger. "You're shorter than I expected." 

"Am I?" 

Hiccup laughs as he scatters tools across a table, and digs for more in his bag. "Careful, Eret; you don't want to start shit with her."

"I'm not starting anything, mate! It's good to meet you, Astrid." 

They shake hands. Her grip is iron, and a corner of her mouth is smiling as his fingers twitch pained. "Eret."

He turns to the other girl, his hand still extended, but falters. "And...  sorry, I've forgotten, what's your name?"

"Oh, you can call me  _Ruff_ , honey. That's the way I like it," she says, her voice sudden husky-low. 

"... Right. Pleased to meet you, Ruff."

"And you, darling." 

Eret's a second-year master's, sculpture, and generally into any material that's  _solid._ He likes to carry huge cameras for the waifish film students; he's a knight in shining armour, with his armour being a clingy muscle-shirt, and shining because it's sweat-covered. He's accustomed to being the smartest and most capable person in any room, but he has a grudging fondness for little Hiccup, a barely-nineteen boy all promise and sharp-toothed humour. Hiccup thinks of Eret as a nicer, mirror-universe version of his cousin, and they get on alright. Eret's taught him how to use most of the equipment, and Hiccup still owes him many drinks.

Hiccup goes to working, and Eret too, and neither of them catch on to how loath Ruff was to leave. Astrid's at a table, keeping watch over Hiccup's bag and trying to add information to her university-choices spreadsheet, swearing at her phone every time it beeps at her. Ruff's halfway across town by now and is still pining.

_ \-- whats he doing now?? what are his biceps doing mmm _

Astrid huffs.  _He's working what do you think???_

_ \-- yea ik but what are the biceps doing _

Astrid doesn't answer. A minute passes.

_ \-- come on As don't fail me now !!!!! status report on the man-meat pls _

_ \-- I can give you an update on the bf, but he's more unboned chicken honestly _

_ \-- ew fuck u As!  thats the man of my dreams in there and ur killing me here!!!!!!! did he touch his man-tits again  _

_ \-- oh my god  _

_ \-- can u still see the nips  _

And Astrid silences her phone, shoves it into Hiccup's bag, finds one of his millions of pockets, and zips the debacle away. 

Even when they meet up that evening for food, Ruff's still asking after Eret; Hiccup tells her in bafflement that he honestly doesn't know Eret's relationship status. Ruff groans to find out she won't see him again, since the wood shop is closed on the week-end, and she wonders how to find out where he lives. Hiccup begins to say that he has Eret's number, but Astrid squashes his foot and he keeps quiet.

That night, after Ruff has gone off to her hostel and Astrid's stuff is already all over Hiccup's tiny flat, he gives his dad his bi-weekly Skype call. Astrid walks from the bathroom fresh-showered and finds her boyfriend hunched over a tiny square of fabric, his father's red face on the screen next to him. She's glad she put pyjamas on.

"Hello, Mr Haddock."

"Astrid? You down there already?"

"Yeah, Ruff wanted it to be this week-end. How have you been then?"

"Good, good. House is bit quiet now that Hiccup's left."

"Mm," Hiccup acknowledges, still frowning at his embroidery. Astrid sits on his bed, on his other side, and he edges back to let them conduct their conversation without him. Astrid sees this, and sighs. She digs an elbow into his stomach. 

"Yes, I suppose it's always quiet without the laugh-track following him around." 

Hiccup snorts, but his dad really does laugh. The audio cracks at his volume, and Hiccup smiles, lips thin. Astrid stretches her legs over his, and uses them to surreptitiously turn the webcam back towards Hiccup, so his father can still see him. 

Mr Haddock on the other side is still smiling. "I trust he gave you the tour, then?"

"Yeah! We met a couple of people he knows, too. Ruffnut was excited."

"Good, good. You'll hold him accountable if he's a poor host?"

"That's what I do."

"Hey!"

She laughs. 

"Good. And make sure he eats right; don't want him wasting away on his own." 

"I've been eating  _fine_ , Dad. I can cook."

"Yes, but you hardly bother to, do you?"

_ "Dad." _

"Aw, don't worry, Mr Haddock; I'll get him nice and fat," Astrid says, patting Hiccup's cheek. He huffs. 

"Knew I could count on you. Well!" Mr Haddock says, clapping his hands together in a burst of static. "I don't want to keep you kids up late! Give me a call soon, son."

"Sure, Dad."

"Is that a promise?"

"Dad! I'll call, don't worry about it."

" _Hiccup._ "

He sighs, looking away from his stitches at last and rolling his eyes. "Yes. I promise. Okay?"

"Good. Talk to you then."

"Later, Dad," Hiccup says, and moves for the red receiver. 

"I miss you, son."

Hiccup stops, his face colouring. And his answer isn't entirely honest.

"Miss you too. Bye." 

His dad is gone then, and Hiccup sits back from the screen. But Astrid yanks his embroidery hoop from his hands. 

"Well that was depressing."

He sighs, extending a hand. "Can I have that back, please?" She raises it out of his reach. "Astrid!"

"Were you two even talking before I came in? Because it looked like you were just ignoring him."

"Ast -- ugh. Yes, we talked. He asked how school was, I mentioned thinking about buying a loom and he didn't want to hear any more.  And he told me I needed to make more friends so I had  _connections_ or some rubbish. Now give me my hoop back!"

"I think you should make more friends, too." She inspects his work, wiggling the knots on the backside with a finger. "What is this supposed to be, anyway?"

"It's a panel for a narrative hanging. There's supposed to be fifteen of them, that's only the fourth and it's due Tuesday after next. The wood project is kicking my arse and I've no time for this one." 

"Is this a dragon, here? What kind of narrative is this?"

"It's a dragon, yeah. It's supposed to be a semi-autobiographical story."

"So you put a dragon in."

"Hell yeah I put a dragon in. You know dragons are a daily fixture of my super-exciting life." He extracts his legs from under hers, but she traps his foot in her own two, laughing.

"Are they?"

"What, haven't I told you about my secret life as a dragon-slayer?" Hiccup says, with a puffed-out chest and an awful impression of bravado.

Astrid laughs, tickling his ankle. "Please, you can't slay a fly." He giggles, and then she pounces.

Hiccup shrieks as she tackles him, mattress squeaking beneath them. Her fingers move further up his trouser-leg, and he's near-insensible from the tickles. "Oh yes I -- no, I can't. You're right. I'm through with the lies!" 

"He admits it! He's no dragon-slayer at all!"

"I admit it, I admit it! I'm just the village dress-maker! Jesus, Astrid, sto -- aha! Stop!"

She stops then, but keeps him pinned beneath her. He reaches up, and she reaches down, and they kiss laughing. Hiccup's computer makes it safe to the floor that night, and all pyjamas stay on, but he certainly doesn't get any more work done on his autobiography-with-dragon embroideries.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read my whole pretend-it's-a-UK-art-school-that-runs-like-an-American-one spiel from the first part, yeah that still applies. In this part we've got a weird mix of Swedish art school where every department is its own little community and hosts its own parties and all, and American art school where you can dabble in a bunch of things. So, let's pretend.
> 
> Also, since this AU's Hiccup won't lose his foot, I had to compensate somehow? So he's color-blind. Not much of a disability, I know, especially since he'd only have deuteranomaly (issues seeing green, apparently the most common type of color-blindness); but it's quite a disadvantage for an artist. I also thought it might be a fun headcanon for the canon HTTYD universe, since his main outfit color scheme changed from mid-green to mid-orangey between movies without much explanation. Astrid has reduced hearing in her right ear after getting punched during a boxing match. Leave it to me to work out niggly details like that and blithely ignore the fact this is set in a monstrous combination of 3 different countries, shh.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: So, I decided to set this in the UK, as you probably noticed. I did this because honestly Modern AU set in the US has always seemed odd to me, since the original books are British and all. This decision makes things unnecessarily complicated for me seeing as I'm American myself, so... I did my best.  
> In this vein though, yes I'm aware that I wrote the whole university/art school process thing much more like universities work in the States. I did this because 1) I go to an American art school and so have personal experience and this is a personal fic, 2) I have no personal experience with UK art schools, though based on my experience with art school elsewhere in Europe I can imagine it's quite different, and 3) I did not believe that Stoick as I wrote him here would realistically allow Hiccup to take a year off to attend an art prep school before applying to an art university. (Again, this is colored by my own experience.) But since Hiccup, as we know, still doesn't know who he is, I knew he needed the sort of general foundation year of art school in which one experiments with many pursuits, which is a thing we have in the States. So pretend he goes to a university that for some reason works like American art school. I apologise for making this a bit of a mess.  
> I have written a second part to this, a bit different in tone/style, that I can post soon too if there's interest.


End file.
